by Tony Daniel
“The captain’s compliments and you’re to join her at Docking Port Able.”
I got out of my bunk and started getting dressed. “Where . . . what’s Docking Port Able? I’ve never heard of it.”
“You’ll find out, soon enough,” he said.
Finally dressed and woozy over the lack of sleep and the images of that Port ambush, I followed, stumbled, and again followed the chief petty officer up as we climbed, walked, took a powered elevator, and went closer and closer to Surfaceside.
Twice we went past hibernation chambers, where members of hibernation maintenance kept view on the hundreds of colonists who were in DeepSleep. A gigantic letter T and the Han symbol marking “Taboo” were painted outside the hatches leading into the hibernation chambers. No matter what conflicts, wars, and disagreements have taken place between Port and Starboard over the years, there has been one consistent agreement, that the hibernation chambers throughout the ship were never to be threatened or damaged.
Some years before my parents were born, one of our captains went insane and threatened the Gold Crew that he would destroy one of the hibernation chambers unless the Gold Crew and the entire Port submitted to Blue Crew rule. That threat didn’t last long. At the Neutral Park in the center of the ship, members of his own command staff bound him to a metal pole in front of the Gold Crew and burnt him alive. He was so reviled that his remains weren’t even later Recycled.
There’s never been another threat against the hibernation chambers since then.
We were now in parts of the ship I had not visited, and would probably never be in again. The way got narrower, with struts and conduits and power cables overhead and underfoot, and then we were crawling, with flickering light tubes guiding us along.
Then the chief petty officer halted and said, “The captain’s up ahead, waiting for you.”
“You’re not coming with me?” I asked.
“Not going to happen, shipmate.”
I crawled ahead and came out in a wide but low compartment. The captain was there, as well as a dozen other crew members, and from their bulk and quiet look, I knew they were Marines, the hardest fighters we had. But wars with Port were rare enough that Starboard couldn’t afford the logistics to keep a large standing force of Marines just lounging around, training and training.
Captain Quinn spotted me and said, “Over here, Yeoman.”
The upper deck was low enough that we were all squatting, and as I got closer, Captain Quinn said, “We’re waiting for another squad to arrive, and then we’ll move out.”
I nodded. “Where to, ma’am?”
“To Port,” she said. “Where else?”
As we waited the Marines talked among themselves, ignoring me—a lowly yeoman—and the captain, who was, well, the captain. She took me to a corner of the compartment and said, “The raid you were on today . . . it was a disaster. Correct?”
My chest was tight, remembering the lights, the screams, the blood, the organized way the Gold crew had ambushed us. “Yes, ma’am, it was.”
“Well . . . sometimes you need to make a demonstration, just to show your opponents how serious you are. That’s the way of wars. Do you know how wars break out?”
I was surprised that in the midst of what was going on, the captain was in a lecturing mode. Her nickname among some decks—but not the ones I trod—was the Professor.
“There’s a variety of theories, and—”
“Scarce resources,” she said, slapping the bulkhead for emphasis. “That’s all it is. Wars in the past on the Persistence have been over water, cattle, pigs, wheat . . . resources. And now it’s high-technology time. Port has technology we need. It wouldn’t agree to a compromise, an agreement to share for the good of the ship, so it had to come down to this.”
Rattling noises some distance away. It sounded like another squad of Marines was coming toward us. The captain said, “You did a good job, trailing a raiding party. I’ve read your personnel file, Yeoman. Pretty adequate job, but you’re a curious sort. I’ve seen three requests filed by you in the past four years to gain access to the Captain’s Archives. Care to tell me why?”
“Uh . . .” On the spot. My immediate supervisor, an old CPO perpetually a month away from passing away and off to Recycling, had sent the requests upstream without her recommendation.
What to say? The captain was a fair sort, as captains go, but she’s got ship’s steel in her blood and spine. I’ve been to four Captain’s Masts where she sentenced fellow shipmates of mine to Medical and then Recycling for offenses against regulations.
She was staring at me, and I knew she wanted an answer, and now.
Why not the truth?
“I’m curious, ma’am,” I said. “I want to know the history of the ship . . . the past, what went on, how we got here.”
The captain nodded. “Fair enough. Tell you what, you’re coming with me on this raiding party. We all get back, and if you write up something satisfactory, I’ll open up all the archives to you. No restriction. How does that sound?”
I just nod, speechless. The Captain’s Archives . . . some supposedly going all the way back to Light Off . . .
She slapped the bulkhead again. “Here’s a secret, just to whet your appetite. Maybe it’ll encourage you to do a good job. The name of our big home, it didn’t start off as the Persistence. I think it was a joke made about a hundred or so years back, during the Event, and the joke stuck. When she was launched, there was an agreement that for half of the journey, she was going to be called for some Yank politician, and at Flip, she’d be called for a Han politician. Supposedly.”
Then she caressed the smooth bulkhead. “But I like Persistence.”
The new squad entered our compartment, bowed over because of the cramped quarters, and the captain said, “Stand ready, Yeoman. We’re off to Port.”
“Through a corridor, or a system tube?” For that was what I was thinking, that perhaps the captain or one of these Marines had discovered an old approach to Port, a way that won’t be defended by the Gold crew.
She smiled. “Nope.”
And then I nearly collapsed in terror for what she said next.
“We’re going out.”
Going out . . .
I had heard of crewmates in the past who have gone out, but never had I ever spoken to one that claimed to have done it.
And now my captain was about to do it.
And I was expected to go along.
“Um, Captain,” I stammered, and she said, “Later, Yeoman, we don’t have time. Just follow my lead, follow my orders, and you’ll be all right.”
She stood away from the corner and went to talk to the Marines, and we went through another access hatch and tube that meant lots of crawling, hand-to-feet work, and as we scurried through the dirt and dust, I thought of the legends and stories about going out. How one could fall forever. How the cosmics out there would strike you dead. Or how one would go insane by just looking out . . . and out . . . and out . . .
The tunnel we were in opened up into a large compartment, and I was startled, thinking people were in a line, waiting for us, but no, it was shelving and hooks, and hanging off them were spacesuits.
Spacesuits.
Scores and scores of them.
My mouth was agape and I was still shaking with fear, but I stepped forward, having only seen one suit in my entire life, during my first term in school, and that one had been worn from years of touching and rubbing and examination.
These looked nearly brand new, as if they had just come off some factory line in long-ago Earth.
Captain Quinn said, “This location . . . is one of the closest secrets we have in Starboard. There’s always been rumors, twice-told tales here and there, but when I assumed the captaincy, I was determined to find out if there was some truth to the tales.” She reached out and gently touched an empty sleeve. “And there was. Here’s a storage facility for those suits used in going out.”
The Marines went
ahead and the captain said, “There are more suits farther down, but these are the ones we’ll be using. From what we’ve learned, these are the basic models, to be used with little or no training. These suits also contain limited resources and . . . just to be clear . . . no sanitation arrangements. But we shouldn’t be gone more than an hour, so that should be fine.”
She took a suit down with its clear head flopping to one side, and then removed her boots. The captain said, “You step in like so . . . and put your arms in like this . . . and bring this section forward . . . and then the helmet goes on like this . . .”
The suit hung limply off her but her voice was still clear. “There’s an ability with these suits to use electronic communication. We won’t be doing that . . . in case the Han have the means to listen to those assigned frequencies. I will maintain the lead . . . we will be hooked together by lines. Marines, carry your weapons but make sure they are secured to the outside of the suits. Any questions?”
No one was brave enough to ask anything.
The captain pointed to the lower waist of the suit. “The green rectangle starts the suit’s operation. The red triangle ceases the suit’s operation. Simple, but that’s how it was designed. When we get to our destination, I’ll signal when it’s time for us to de-suit. Then it will be time to strike fast, and strike hard. Again, any questions?”
The bravery of the Marines and myself still wasn’t tested.
“Go on then, choose a suit. And don’t bother looking for any particular size. The suits adjust to your mass and shape.”
There was some bumbling and chaos when we got to the suits, and I had to dodge between two tall Marines before grabbing one for myself. The captain must have secretly practiced before, because I fell on the deck three times before I got everything in place, but at least nobody laughed at me. Too many others were doing the same thing, falling over and over again on the deck.
As I reached to the waist, looking for the green rectangular switch, the oddest feeling came over me, thinking that this suit had been built by my ancestors, back home on Earth, and that whoever worked this suit and put it together . . . heck, even his or her grandchildren were probably dead.
I pushed the switch in and yelped in surprise. There was a combination hissing and whirring sound as the open flaps and swatches on the suit seemed to “reach out” and get connected, and then the suit . . . it moved around me, and settled in. My ears popped for some reason, and then the hissing and whirring noises stopped. Odd, but if I shifted my head one way or another, green words and symbols appeared like they were being displayed on the clear helmet, giving me information such as outside pressure and zulu time and air expiration and other stuff I couldn’t make out. I took a deep breath. The air was sharp and cold, and there was something else. It smelled old, I mean, really, really old.
I was jostled by somebody and I turned around, and it was a fully suited Marine, fixing a long line to my belt. Others ahead of me were hooked up as well. Their weapons—swords, lances, powered weapons—were either being carried or were fastened to the sides of the suits.
This was . . . something.
I felt important.
I felt invincible.
Then there were noises, yells, screams.
I turned around, a bit clumsy because of my suit, and there were two Marines, writhing on the deck, slapping at the triangular red button, punching at their helmets, trying to get them off . . . and it struck me that something must be wrong with the air system in those two suits. They couldn’t breathe. They were suffocating and dying in front of us. There was a sudden scream behind me and a Marine was flat out on the deck, reaching down to his knees, where his lower legs had been cut clean off by the suit clamping too hard.
I didn’t feel invincible anymore.
We’d lost three Marines already and I was shaking with fear inside my suit, but being roped in, I was forced to follow a line of spacesuited crewmen, led by Captain Quinn, as we went down an adjacent passageway, and there was a heavy-looking door that gave us access into a larger compartment, much bigger than the one with the suit storage. We huddled in and there was a lit panel, and the captain pressed a number of switches, and the door closed behind us. I felt the thump vibrate in my boots and up my legs. Something seemed wrong with the lights and they dimmed, and I felt more vibration as machinery in this compartment began operating. My suit felt different, somehow, and then there was tugging on the rope, and two more Marines were struggling, struggling . . . and then they settled down on the deck.
Two others were dead because of something wrong with their suits. This attack force had already been depleted before we’d even left Starboard territory. But the lines were refastened and I was hoping Captain Quinn was going to cancel this mission, and I turned and the compartment shuddered, and then a bulkhead fell away and—
Stars.
I saw stars and blackness and stars that seemed to go on forever.
The line tugged and we moved out, and in a few moments, I’m Outside, on the exterior surface of the Persistence, and I’m not ashamed to say that my bladder cut loose and I soiled myself.
We stood as a group and I think maybe the captain was giving us a moment to orient ourselves. My breathing was ragged and my heart was thumping along so hard I could actually hear it in my suit.
My God, the stars . . .
I looked around me, and around me, and my knees shook at seeing at just how huge the Persistence was. The low light from the open compartment we just left was still illuminating the surrounding area, and the hull of the Persistence and the adjoining structures just went on, and on, and on . . .
I knew how large Persistence was, for the number of sleepers we carried, and the farms, and the hydroponic tanks, and storage, and quarters for both the Blue and Gold, Port and Starboard, Han and Yank . . . but to see it from the outside.
I closed my eyes. Opened them again.
And the stars . . . we’ve all seen the stars via the different viewscreens and monitors—including the one hosting Destination—but to see them now . . . everywhere we looked, there were the stars, so many stars, against the blackness and emptiness of space.
Someone tugged the line.
We started moving.
We moved in a ragged line, being gently kept on the hull’s surface because of something called “the Field,” which also protected the Persistence from the constant hammering of debris that we’d encountered over the decades. As we moved along, sometimes the stars were just too much to look at, and I kept my gaze to my slowly shuffling feet. There were openings here and there, struts and antennas, and once in our parade line, the huge hull seemed to dip down and then come back up. There were also paint schemes, numbers and letters outlined on the hull, and I got a tingling feeling at the base of my skull, knowing that these paint marks were made by our ancestors, who built this ship and sent it to the stars. As hard as it was to believe, my breathing eased some as we moved along, yet I still hoped the captain knew where we were going.
And what we would do when we got there.
The slope in the hull rose up and there were dish-shaped structures scattered across the hull, again stretching off forward and aft, blurring out at the length of my vision. My breathing was loud and there was a sudden tug and jostle at my rear, and I fell down on the hull.
I slowly tried to get up, the line wrapped around my legs, and I fought and struggled to free the line, and then I was able to get back up.
I looked to the rear of the line.
And instantly wished I hadn’t.
Two Marines at the very end had broken free. Their end of the line must have parted, and one or the other must have panicked and pushed off the hull, strong enough to pass through the Field.
They wiggled and struggled, like two carp being pulled out of one of our ponds, until I couldn’t see them anymore as they drifted off in screaming silence.
Another tug on the line.
Time to move.
And I felt li
ke laughing hysterically, thinking so far, the Persistence has turned out to be more of an enemy than the Gold Crew.
Some long time later—and I was wondering just how much air was left within my suit—we came to a halt. Two figures were huddled together up ahead, helmets pressed against each other, and I thought that maybe they could hear each other through the conductive materials of their helmets.
One slapped the other on the shoulder, and we went just a few more meters, and stopped.
There was a large, rectangular shape outlined in faded yellow paint extending along the hull, and we were jostled and pulled to line up nearby. One spacesuited figure—and I was almost sure it was the captain—knelt down. Two battle lanterns were lit off, and it looked like the figure was searching for something with her gloved hands.
Then the hand came up and down, twice on the hull.
A vibration began against my feet.
Light flared out from the hull, and it got brighter, and the outlined shape revealed itself to be a large hatch, just like the one we used to leave Starboard.
A tug of the line, and now we were entering Port.
We gathered in the large compartment and the hatch slammed shut, and there were more vibrations and thudding of machinery against my feet. The lights in here flickered and then grew in strength, and then the thumping and vibration slowed down and ended.
What now?
One figure untied its line, and then pushed down at the red triangle at the waist. The suit changed shape and then a figure emerged, and it was the captain, her face sweaty, her red hair matted down. The rest of us followed her lead, and the suits collapsed in piles on the deck, like cast-off vegetable peelings in the galley.
